Social

Counting seconds, a slow…agonizing…impatient…blink. My scroll is a collective pointing of *the finger* at the year – it’s 2020 that is bad. It had a dark spot on the bottom that was missed at first. Distant conversations and a barrage of memes, reasonable people, comforting ourselves by blaming 2020. How I pray for some mad truth in that easy out, the simple turn of a figmented page. One lost year. One year of pandemic – level loss. We can do anything for one year – with an end in sight, right? This too, shall pass – it surely must.
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And then…I could casually and at the very last afterthought moment, recklessly decide to pile into a car with a bunch of germy others and ride to Houston’s for dinner. Wait endlessly for a table, shoulder-bumping strangers I never mean to glance over at (let alone consider their pre-existings), while we sip wine and shift weight, examining outfits and attitudes. Talking right up to ears against the din. Noses and mouths stark naked indoors, exposed to every drop, every freaking micro-drop. We will laugh carelessly. Zero oily puddles of guilt and fear and doubt will swirl their fumes in our guts – these are temporary, unnatural little bodies that will dry up and evaporate just as the ball drops, as the peach drops, as the curtain closes and the clocks all strike…, right? Sell your Zoom. 3-2-1-Boom. Artichoke dip and peanut sauce in a tight booth, clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.
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No pressure 2021.
#homebody #briarroseworld